Sonnet with Desert Dunes
At night when his body is folded on the bed, and his back is turned—I’ll start a poem in my head: We stay up. / I watch his back curved / and shoulders arced / like desert dunes— Desert dunes. I walk through it in my head. Into the heat. Hardly shifting / as he breathes. Desert dunes, the dry air blowing ridges in the sand. Grand as the stones moving in its valleys. Desert dunes, a deep beige beneath blue steel skies. I disappear into it—the dunes, the back, before the words dry up. Desert dunes: Later he lays flat, / sleeping like a body, his body / and I see the freckles now / on the same skin and bones / that stood mountainous. Desert dunes. The words tire and crumple like a jackrabbit in the pocks of dunes—cool and unmoving, its ruffled planes disturbed only by this animal crawling quiet in the dark.
This poem previously appeared in the December 2015 issue of Clementine Unbound.